


Why does it make a difference if I'm the corpse?

by drpepperdiva91



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Could Be Cannon, Hurt, John is angry and in pain, Lots of dialogue, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, angry outbursts, footwear says a lot about a person, mentions of cannon suicide, no comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-02
Updated: 2015-06-02
Packaged: 2018-04-02 02:27:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4042261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drpepperdiva91/pseuds/drpepperdiva91
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Footwear says a lot about a person, John.</p><p>In which John is too depressed for shoes, Sherlock talks to him in his head, and everybody is a bit not good.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Why does it make a difference if I'm the corpse?

**Author's Note:**

> There's a screencap floating around on tumblr, of John sitting in 221B, post-Reichenbach, pre-return. He's clearly dressed, not wearing pajamas or anything. But no shoes. Not even any socks, as if he was planning to go out.
> 
> This is dedicated to John's poor, sad, grieving feet.
> 
> Reminiscent of my tumblr post, here: http://itmakesfortoomuchstupidintheroom.tumblr.com/post/112358586530/what-gets-me-here-is-the-bare-feet-every-time

John wasn't broken, no. He won't allow that. Much too proud for it. Damn his leg, damn his flatmate, and damn the dark cloud that settled over him since Sherlock's death. Sherlock Holmes doesn't get the privilege of breaking John Watson- not after forcing John to watch Sherlock leap off the hospital roof and plummet to his bloody death. That isn't something you do to your friends, even if you've just got one. 

John wasn't broken, but that might be more out of spite than anything else, if he's honest with himself. Anger is easier than grief. Anger can be put to use, can be understood, can be expelled. Grief, on the other hand... John's grief wasn't something he could extinguish by working 16-hour shifts or by destroying every piece of glassware Sherlock left in the kitchen, growing moldy the week after his death. Rather than pushing him forward, like the anger did, the grief snuck slimy tendrils of pain around his chest, and sucked him down into the stank swamp of depression that he had waded through after returning from the war. 

Grief was something John didn't indulge in, often. It was something he avoided, something he learned how to tamp down quickly and efficiently early on in life, something that left him feeling weak and ill. Unfortunately for John, grief wasn't something he always had control over, no matter how many times he tried to put it in a locked box and throw away the key. 

Grief was how he found himself sitting in his chair, staring at his knees with eyelids full of tears that he, quite resolutely, was not shedding. His right hand formed a tight fist, resting on his thighs, and his left supported his head. His head which, frankly, had rarely felt any heavier than it did now. His throat burned, and he wished it was from the whiskey.

He twisted his feet in towards each other, pressing the bottoms of his toes together, just now noticing that he hadn't even put on socks today. He let out a shaky breath, Sherlock's voice spouting deductions about his mental status inside his head.

Really, the fact that he was hearing Sherlock in his head said enough about his mental status as it was.

_'Now, John, why would it matter if the corpse wasn't wearing socks, but was fully dressed?'_

_'I'm not actually a corpse, git. You're the one that offed himself.'_

_'It's not interesting unless you're a corpse. Be a corpse.'_

_'Yeah, alright, fine. I'm the corpse. Why am I not wearing socks?'_

_'Well... you're fully dressed, as if you would be going out today. Clean-shaven, hair washed. I know you're using my shampoo, by the way. But I can tell by the amount of dust on the doorknob that you haven't actually left the flat in three days. Or, apparently, let Mrs. Hudson in. So, not dressed for work, not dressed for Mrs. Hudson's company, certainly not dressed for Lestrade since you're still putting some of the blame on him for my suicide-'_

_'Sherlock. We're not talking about that. It's bad enough that I'm even imagining this conversation.'_

_'Right. Well. That still leaves the question, why dress at all? Why keep up appearances? You don't have anyone to fool but yourself so... you're fooling yourself. Going through the motions of normal life because you're convinced that once you stop, you won't be able to pick up the pieces again. But no shoes, because you know you've no reason to go out. No socks either, so you're not even going to pretend, today. Footwear says a lot about a person, John. And your's is not saying anything good right now. Especially if you're the corpse.'_

_'Really. Why does it make a difference if I'm the corpse?'_

_'John. If you're the corpse, we've_ both _killed ourselves.'_

_'I wouldn't think a suicidal man would bother getting dressed in the morning.'_

_'He might if he knew it was the first time anyone would see his body this week. Or if he was trying to convince himself he wasn't suicidal. But he definitely wouldn't put shoes on, unless he was planning on leaving the flat. Which you clearly are not planning.'_

_'Fuck you, Sherlock.'_

John shook his head, and huffed out a short burst of air that he hadn't realized he was holding. He glanced up briefly, his eyes locking on the skull Sherlock had taken to calling Billy.

"Fuck you, Billy."

He grasped his hands together, tightly, to stop the trembling that had plagued him since Sherlock's funeral. His breath quickened minutely and hitched, before he managed to get it back under control. One of his shaking hands worked free of the other to flick away the few tears that had escaped. He looked at the skull again. The skull that Sherlock had hidden countless packs of cigarettes in, for John to find, because anyone could see them through the thing's jaw. The skull Sherlock had taped a small vial of morphine in, assuming that no one would continue to look under the skull once the decoy cigarettes were found. The drugs trafficking skull that Sherlock had left for John to find after his suicide.

"FUCK you, Billy!" John roared, tearing himself from his seat, grabbing the skull from the mantel, and hurling it across the room with as much force he could manage without also throwing his arm out of its socket. He watched it shatter against the wall across the room, before falling to his knees by the fireplace, scraping the heels of his hands on the stone of the hearth to ground himself. Realizing his lungs were burning, John gasped out a few quick breaths, exerting more effort than he would admit he needed to control himself. His shoulders sagged, finally, exhausted. He let his head dip back to rest against the wall, too tired to bother getting back up. His cheeks were dry, even though he could feel the lump still stuck in his throat.

John was  _not_ broken. He would not bawl like a child; he would not forfeit his life in misery. John would wake up each morning, make his tea, force down a meal, and occasionally go to work. He would go through the motions of life after Sherlock, life after experiments on the kitchen table, life after tube rides covered in pig blood, life after hallucinogenic airborne drugs, life after murders and chases and _take my hand, he's my hostage, we can't giggle at a crime scene._

Most days, he would manage to put on socks.

Sherlock Holmes, the brilliant sodding bastard, does not get the privilege of breaking John Watson, no matter how much it hurts.

**Author's Note:**

> I really, really really want you to comment. Please. It makes my day, every time, even though I'm terribly slow at responding.


End file.
